


it will come back

by orphan_account



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Dependency, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, Lantern-Bearer Wirt, M/M, Mental Illness, Slow Burn, Toxic Relationship, Trans Male Wirt, older wirt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-01-31 17:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21449983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It started out as a fantasy, nothing more. A daydream that Wirt would return to whenever things got particularly bad, something he could hold on to during hard times. The idea of going back to the Unknown quickly became a comfort whenever Wirt needed to escape from all the shit going on around him.Wirt thought it was funny, in a way. He’d spent the whole time he was there determined to get home, but as soon as he did, everything in his life went to hell. Life was funny like that.
Relationships: The Beast/Wirt
Comments: 13
Kudos: 111





	1. like a lamb to his slaughter; buried in water

**Author's Note:**

> listen to buried in water by dead man’s bones while reading this chapter, it helps with atmosphere!
> 
> this fic takes inspiration from firebug by jubilationtcornpone. if you like this fic you’ll love firebug, and i strongly encourage you to read it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: drowning, depression, suicidal ideation

Wirt has drowned before. 

He’s experienced the sensation of sinking deeper into the cold, dark water, weighed down by heavy clothes and even heavier regrets. The first time, he’d been worrying over things that seem trivial to him now: anxiety over giving Sara his tape, fear at being caught by the police in that abandoned graveyard, and whether he’d get in trouble for endangering his little brother. That time, Wirt had blacked out quickly, finding himself in another world—the Unknown—before he even knew what was happening.

But this time, it’s different. This time, Wirt’s eyes are wide open as the lake swallows him, enveloping him in its chilling embrace.

Panic is quick to set in, moments after his head sinks below the water. Wirt’s pulse skyrockets, and his arms flail wildly, reaching toward the surface. The oppressive, clinging depression that filled his mind just seconds earlier suddenly clears away, his body’s instinct to survive kicking in.

As Wirt desperately struggles against the icy current, one of his kicking feet catches against a tangle of sharp branches. It wraps around his ankle, tearing into the fabric of his pants and holding him captive no matter how much he fights to free himself. 

He lets out a scream, watching as the bubbles stream away from his mouth. His lungs are burning with the effort to keep holding his breath, his mind whirling, panicked thoughts crowding his brain.  _ Please no please please I don’t want to die like this please. _

_ I’m going to die. _

Time seems to slow down. Slowly, a numbing sense of resignation begins in Wirt’s chest and spreads outward, calming his desperate thrashing and settling deep in his bones. His eyes are still open, gazing upward at the murky blue-green water flowing around him. Through the darkness, he can just barely make out the pale half-circle of the moon in the sky high above him.

It’s peaceful, in a way, he thinks as the numbness spreads to his extremities. Or maybe he’s just losing feeling in his fingers.

_ I’m going to die. _

Wirt’s last thought before he loses consciousness is that he probably shouldn’t feel so relieved.

* * *

He’d been trying to go back.

It started out as a fantasy, nothing more. A daydream that Wirt would return to whenever things got particularly bad, something he could hold on to during hard times. The idea of going back to the Unknown quickly became a comfort whenever Wirt needed to escape from all the shit going on around him.

Wirt thought it was funny, in a way. He’d spent the whole time he was there determined to get home, but as soon as he did, everything in his life went to hell. Life was funny like that.

He wasn’t sure what exactly he thought was going to happen when they got back. It wasn’t like he thought anyone would believe what happened to him and Greg, it was more like he just… didn’t consider what the aftermath would be like. There was no way he could’ve predicted the way his mom would go into crisis mode, completely shutting down Wirt’s life and barely allowing him to even leave the house for the next three months; nor could he have anticipated that she would become withdrawn and shut down completely at any reminder of the Halloween incident, to the point that they weren’t even allowed to talk about it in front of her. If Wirt thought his mom was protective of him and Greg before, he was soon taught a whole new meaning of the word.

She was just trying to help. Wirt knew that. She was worried and traumatized by her sons’ near-death experience and she just wanted the best for them. But Greg didn’t get it. The distant look that came into their mother’s eyes whenever Greg would chatter excitedly about their adventures in the Unknown went completely over his head. He couldn’t understand why she didn’t want to hear his stories. Wirt could hear her sobbing almost every night, sitting at the kitchen table when Wirt’s stepdad had gone to bed.

Her breakdowns were just a precursor to the many therapists, psychiatrists, counselors, and doctors she sent Wirt and Greg to in the following weeks. Convincing Greg that his experience in the Unknown was nothing more than his mind’s attempt to cope with nearly dying turned out to be a difficult feat. Greg’s persistence and optimism was something Wirt had come to admire during their time in the Unknown, but watching the way it was affecting him now just made his heart hurt. 

It almost broke him when Greg had looked up at him with those deep, innocent eyes and pleaded, “You remember it too, don’t you, Wirt? You were there with me, I know you remember it. Tell them you remember!”

Wirt had been unable to say a word, guilt and anxiety churning in his stomach, threatening to overwhelm him. The doctors took his silence as further proof that Greg was making everything up, doubling down on their efforts to persuade him. 

Greg never really forgave him for that. Their relationship was strained for weeks afterward, and it was even longer before Wirt could fully look his brother in the eye without being swamped by guilt.

Months passed, and then years. Greg forgot about the Unknown, seemingly repressing all of his memories of the event. But Wirt could never forget. 

It quickly became an obsession for him. He spent countless nights fixating on it—writing poetry, attempting to draw maps of the Unknown, even checking out books from the school library to try and find out if there was any record of it anywhere. Of course, he had to keep it a secret; his mom would have another meltdown, his stepdad would get that worried crease between his brows that never seemed to go away, and none of his friends would get it. 

Not that he had very many of those, anyway. Things didn’t work out between him and Sara—they spent a couple of months trying to date, then ultimately decided they were better off as friends. Throughout the rest of high school, Wirt occasionally experimented, dating a couple of different girls and guys, but nothing seemed to stick. He ended up withdrawing from them too as his obsession with the Unknown grew. 

But everything really went to shit in Wirt’s senior year of high school. That was when his dad showed up again. His real dad. The guy who left Wirt and his mom when Wirt was only seven. Evidently, he had heard about Wirt nearly dying a few years before, and decided he needed to try to get himself involved in his son’s life again. 

The ensuing year or so was a living hell for Wirt as his dad repeatedly tried to get into contact with him, using tactics ranging from guilt-tripping and emotional manipulation to just shy of full-on stalking. It was only when Wirt’s mom finally found out that she was able to get a restraining order on his dad, but the damage it left was irreversible. 

During that time was when Wirt’s daydreaming reached its peak. And shortly after his eighteenth birthday, his depression and anxiety hit a new low point when he failed two classes and had one of the worst panic attacks of his life in the school cafeteria.

The idea of dying wasn’t new to Wirt, either. But the option of returning to the Unknown and being able to cast aside all of his problems was just as appealing. What had once been just a comforting fantasy soon became a legitimate option.

So in January, during winter break, Wirt decides to take it. He knows there’s a slim chance that he’ll make it back to the Unknown, but as he sinks deeper and deeper into the lake, the peaceful thought of death brings him sweet relief.


	2. it’s a long way down to the bottom of the river

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He remembers being underwater, staring up at the moon, and then… “I… think maybe I died.”

“Wirt!”

Rough hands shake his shoulders, and he groans, trying to move away. Cold. So cold… 

“Wake up, boy!”

Wait, he shouldn’t have shoulders. He’s supposed to be dead. 

Wirt’s eyes fly open. He’s laying on his back, and crouched over him is none other than the lonely Woodsman that he had met his first time in the Unknown. The man looks older and even more world-weary than he had four years ago, but he’s clearly the same person. 

“What the fuck?” Wirt says. 

The Woodsman glares at him. “What are you doing here, boy? I thought you and that brother of yours left this place!” 

Gingerly, Wirt sits up, rubbing his aching head. He’d been lying in a pile of dead leaves; there’s no snow on the ground, but the earth feels frozen and hardened, and the trees around him are bare, which means it must be winter here in the Unknown, too. 

So he made it. 

The other interesting thing is that Wirt is wearing the exact same thing he had last time he was here—his Halloween costume from sophomore year, complete with the mismatched shoes and red hat and everything. He stares at himself, examining his clothes and the way they seem to still fit, despite the fact that he’d hit a small growth spurt during high school. 

“I don’t know,” he says at last, looking up at the trees. His mind feels fuzzy and unfocused. He had wanted to come here, that much he knows for sure. He remembers being underwater, staring up at the moon, and then… “I… think maybe I died.” 

Narrowing his eyes, the Woodsman looks at him suspiciously. Wirt holds up his hands in surrender, cringing a little under his intent gaze. He gets the feeling that the Woodsman can tell that it’s not the whole story—but thankfully, he doesn’t press the issue. 

“Whatever the case, these woods are no place for a boy to be alone,” the Woodsman says, standing up and offering Wirt a hand. Wirt takes it, scrambling to his feet and dusting off his coat. 

“I’m not really a kid anymore,” he says, a little defensively. 

The Woodsman gives him a look, then turns away, hefting his pack on his shoulders. “Come with me,” he says, setting off at a brisk pace that Wirt struggles to keep up with. 

It doesn’t take Wirt long to notice that the Woodsman is carrying a normal lantern, rather than the distinctive one he used to bear. “Hey, what happened to the Beast’s lantern?” he asks, almost tripping over a root. “Did you end up getting rid of him?”

“Hush!” The Woodsman scowls at him. “Do not speak his name. He still roams these woods.”

Wirt shudders, wrapping his cloak around himself. He’d thought that the Woodsman had blown out the lantern and taken care of the Beast, like Wirt had nearly done. Had it not worked?

He stays quiet for the rest of the walk, troubled by these thoughts. Eventually, he and the Woodsman arrive at a small cottage, hidden by the trees. The night air is crisp and clear, the sky studded with stars, and Wirt’s breath comes in clouds, billowing away from his lips. 

“This is my home,” the Woodsman says, holding his lantern a little higher. “You can stay here for a night or two, but remaining in the woods is not safe for you.”

Wirt frowns. “Why not?”

The Woodsman leads him up the steps, opening the door. “Dead or not, you are still an outsider who has been in the Unknown before,” he says grimly. “The Beast would not stop at the chance to get his hands on you.”

With that, the Woodsman leads him inside. Dread coils in the pit of Wirt’s stomach; he can’t think of a response as he follows the Woodsman through the door, so he doesn’t say a word. 

The Woodsman prepares a quick meal—a simple pot of soup heated over a fire—and serves Wirt and himself. They don’t really talk over dinner—Wirt is still reeling a little, and the Woodsman isn’t the most talkative guy. Afterward, the Woodsman shows Wirt to a small bedroom, empty save for a mattress on the floor and a dull mirror on the wall, and bids him a curt goodnight. 

Sleep doesn’t come easily, despite how exhausted Wirt’s body feels. His mind is too awake, whirling too quickly for him to even really try to make sense of his thoughts. 

It hasn’t really hit him that he’s dead yet. Honestly, he’s not even sure that he _ is _dead. Last time he came to the Unknown, it felt like he was teetering on the brink, one foot on each side of the line between life and death. It felt like a dream. And when he’d returned, it was as though he left a part of himself in the Unknown—or, more accurately, he brought a part of the Unknown back with him. 

This time, though, it feels more… permanent. There’s no longer that sense that he has a foot in each world. And that’s the part that’s hard for Wirt to swallow. 

_ You wanted this, _ a voice in his head whispers. 

And it’s true. He had wanted this. But it doesn’t feel… right. It doesn’t feel the way he remembered. There’s a sinister presence looming over the forest, over Wirt, that’s been apparent since the moment he arrived. 

As if on cue, Wirt hears something faintly through the window. It sounds like…

Singing. 

_ “Come, wayward souls…” _

Wirt bolts upright, clutching the blanket to his chest, his heart missing a beat. 

_ “That wander through the darkness…” _

It’s the Beast. Distant, but there all the same. His voice echoes through the trees, reaching Wirt even through the walls of the Woodsman’s house. 

_ “There is a light for the lost and the meek…” _

Shaken, Wirt curls up under the blanket, covering his head. His heart thumps wildly in his chest. _ Please stop. _

_ “Sorrow and fear are easily forgotten…” _

Wirt presses his pillow over his head, and thankfully, it blocks out the Beast’s singing. But the sound of it still echoes in Wirt’s head, a concrete reminder that the one place he thought he could turn to is no longer the safe haven he made it out to be. 

Maybe it never was. 

When he lifts the pillow away from his head, the Beast’s song sounds further away, but it’s still audible, that rich bass thrumming in the depths of the forest. 

_ “When you submit to the soil of the earth…” _

Wirt sleeps fitfully, restless on the hard mattress. Several times throughout the night, he wakes in a cold sweat to hear the Beast singing, sometimes so faint he can barely make it out, sometimes much closer. Every time, Wirt huddles under his blanket and shuts his eyes tight, praying he’ll go away. 

He doesn’t let himself wonder who’s listening to his prayers. 

* * *

A knock on the door startles Wirt awake, nearly jolting him out of bed. “Breakfast will be ready in five minutes,” the Woodsman barks through the door. A moment later, Wirt hears his footsteps retreat down the hallway. 

Wirt lets out the breath he’d been holding, flopping back down on the bed. It’s tempting to just go back to sleep—in the end, he’d hardly slept, kept awake by the Beast’s haunting voice circling the cabin. His head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, but he gets up anyway, placing his hat on his head and checking the mirror on the wall. 

He looks… drained. The beginnings of dark circles are already starting to form under his eyes, and his face looks paler than usual. Sighing, Wirt pinches his cheeks to bring some color to them, then heads to the kitchen. 

At the table, the Woodsman is setting out two bowls of something that appears to be oatmeal. He looks just as exhausted as Wirt does, so Wirt doesn’t try to speak to him aside from a soft “thank you” as he sits down. The oatmeal is a little bland, but surprisingly not terrible. 

The Woodsman, however, has something to say. “I’m sure you heard him last night as well,” he says gravely, not bothering to specify. They both know. 

“Yeah,” Wirt says, swallowing a bite of too-hot oatmeal. “I thought maybe I was imagining it.”

The Woodsman shakes his head. “If only,” he says. “No, it was very real. He knows you’re here.”

Wirt stirs his oatmeal, staring down into the bowl. His stomach cramps with anxiety. “What does he want with me?” he asks, hating the way his voice trembles slightly. 

Leaning back in his seat, the Woodsman sighs. “There are many things it could be,” he says. “You defied the Beast once. It is likely that he wants revenge.”

The words send a chill down Wirt’s spine. “Are you saying he wants to kill me?”

“It is possible,” the Woodsman answers, a heavy frown settling over his face. “He may want to make you into an edelwood tree, and use you to fuel his lantern. Or he may wish for you to carry it.”

Wirt’s brows furrow. “Speaking of the lantern, what happened? I thought you, you know…” He makes a vague gesture. “Blew it out and stuff.” 

The Woodsman looks at him with tired eyes. “The Beast is far too powerful to be defeated by simply extinguishing the lantern,” he says wearily. “I thought it could keep him at bay. But it merely prevents him from taking a physical form. And the moment the lantern was relit…” He trails off, shaking his head. 

Once again, dread worms its way into Wirt’s gut as the implication of the Woodsman’s story sinks in. “Is there any chance the Beast is after you and not me?” His eyes widen, and he adds hurriedly, “N-not that I’m trying to push it off on you or anything, I just—”

“The Beast no longer wants anything from me,” says the Woodsman. “His song was meant for you.” 

Wirt lets that sink in. “So—so, he’s just trying to—what, mess with my head?” he says, not bothering to hide the note of incredulity in his voice. 

“We cannot tell for sure,” says the Woodsman. He lowers his head, no longer looking at Wirt, and begins to eat his oatmeal, clearly signaling the end of the conversation. 

Troubled, Wirt goes back to eating as well. The idea of the Beast lurking around the cabin, just waiting for a chance to pounce on him, is unsettling. And then there’s the matter of the Woodsman’s short, cryptic tale; what happened? How was the lantern relit? 

Had the Woodsman relit it? 

Wirt squints at him, quickly looking away when the Woodsman glances up as though sensing his eyes on him. He couldn’t have done something like that, right? He _ wouldn’t _have, not with the way he’s always been about the beast. But the idea is there, nagging at him, refusing to leave him alone. 

His spoon scrapes the bottom of his bowl, and Wirt blinks, not having realized that he’d finished already. A little awkwardly, he stands, clearing his throat. “Do you want me to wash your bowl?” he asks. 

The Woodsman lifts his head. “No, thank you,” he says. At least he’s gotten a little more polite. 

Wirt goes over to the sink, rinsing out his bowl and only briefly pausing to wonder when the people of the Unknown invented sinks. He sets it on the little drying rack on the counter, then turns back to face the Woodsman, leaning against the counter. 

“So, um,” Wirt says. “What am I supposed to do while I’m here?”

The Woodsman scoops his last bite of oatmeal into his mouth, then rises, joining Wirt by the sink. “I work as a carpenter now,” he says. “Chopping down normal trees for firewood and for building furniture for the folk of Brookfield, a few miles south of here.” He puts his bowl beside Wirt’s, then looks at him. “I can’t risk you out in the woods. You will stay here.”

Eyebrows jumping up toward his hairline, Wirt straightens, watching as the Woodsman walks away. “You want me to just… sit in here? Alone?” 

Glancing back over his shoulder, the Woodsman gives Wirt a look that silences his protests. “I’m sure you can find something to entertain yourself,” he says gruffly, taking his hat and coat from where they hang on the hook beside the door. He hefts his bag up onto his shoulders, takes his axe in hand, and gives Wirt one final word of warning. “Don’t leave the house.”

And with that, he’s gone. 


End file.
